


How to Mulch What's Dying on the Vine

by elithewho



Category: Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Coercion, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rough Oral Sex, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 19:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14003058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Alex had never been afraid of the dark before. But three months in Jumaniji (or however long it had been, sometimes he thought it must have been longer) had taught him what to fear. The distant sound of drums, the roar of motorcycles, the fearfully close buzz of a mosquito in his ear. But the dark especially because all the other fears were only amplified in it, every small sound or movement in the jungle sending a thrill of hot terror up his spine.





	How to Mulch What's Dying on the Vine

**Author's Note:**

> The posting of this fic comes with its own angry septa ringing a shame bell at me.
> 
>  

Alex had never been afraid of the dark before. But three months in Jumaniji (or however long it had been, sometimes he thought it must have been longer) had taught him what to fear. The distant sound of drums, the roar of motorcycles, the fearfully close buzz of a mosquito in his ear. But the dark especially because all the other fears were only amplified in it, every small sound or movement in the jungle sending a thrill of hot terror up his spine.

After his few failed attempts at the transportation shed, Alex tried to count the days, hoping that every sunrise would bring new players to the game. But time was too changeable, malleable like Silly Putty that he'd mushed against a newspaper too many times, muddled into uselessness and left stuck to the rec room ceiling. Days could feel like weeks or slip by unnoticed in mere seconds and the jungle remained unchanged. Alex spent the hot muggy days and hotter nights trapped in the pool of weak light cast by the Citronella candles that surrounded him like some black magic ritual. He'd try to distract himself by chanting the lyrics to whatever Metallica or Megadeth song came into his head because they felt like home, banging out the drum solo on the nearest wooden beam.

Days bled into each other as he settled into the shelter built by Alan Parrish, whoever he had been. Alex mentally mapped out the quickest route to the bazaar from where he was camped, getting better each run at avoiding the traps. The bazaar had all the rations he needed, as well as Citronella candles, mosquito repellant and endless margarita fixings, but he could never find a use for those beyond getting blind drunk every night, which didn't help his mixed-up perception of time. At least then he was able to sleep.

Slowly, imperceptibly, he felt the jungle change. He didn't perceive it happening at first, but one day, after dodging death spikes and murderous blades to get his weekly supply of limes and tequila and emerging unscathed into the jungle, he felt its difference. When he'd first arrived, disoriented and confused, of course it had been frighteningly real, realer than any video game he'd ever imagined, but strangely unreal too. Pain was duller, the jungle almost too green and vibrant, the oddness of being in a virtual body too distinct. But as he deposited his haul on what passed for a kitchen table, Alex didn't feel so distant from this body that wasn’t his. The jungle clicked and creaked and sighed with wind, just like a real jungle would. It was uncanny. He caught his reflection in the sliver of broken mirror he'd found in the jungle, and it didn't look so much like a stranger anymore.

But every day he had to tell himself that just a little longer and then new players would arrive. Someone would pick up the game and select a character curiously as he had done. He hoped his parents hadn't changed his room too much.

The trip to the bazaar had become more of a fun adventure the better he got at it. He could sense exactly when the slicing blades would come to chop him up and pausing for them to go down again was a breeze. He was used to the hustle and bustle of the bazaar that was more of a façade than anything. The NPCs might buy things and talk to each other, but it was the same ones every day, doing the same things every day. The vendors had the same stuff and said the same thing to him every time, calling out to Seaplane and plying him with their wares.

So the novelty of something different happening was a big shock to the system. Goons on motorcycles crashed through a wall of stalls, scattering bread and fruit over the cobbled street. Alex had barely escaped Van Pelt and his men the last time they'd chased him into the jungle, but he hadn't seen them in the bazaar in ages. His instincts took over, whether born of the virtual world he inhabited or not; he dashed in the direction of his getaway. The goons weren't too bright, just henchmen to the final boss, Van Pelt, who tended to helpfully hang in the background at times like these. Everyone in this world had a part to play, created for them by the game. Even Alex.

But there was something different about the mooks today. The baker called out, "Fresh bread!" And the fruitseller hollered, "Get your apples and limes here!" just like always, as though he weren't running for his life. "Seaplane, come have a drink!" called the barman at the local tavern, leaning against the door, the usual thing he said when Alex went by. But the goons, typically content to chase him to his secret escape route, had other plans.

A motorcycle bearing a huge bearded goon swerved in front of him. Alex couldn't dodge in time. In seconds he was surrounded, totally boxed in. The shadow of Van Pelt's vulture wheeled above them and he felt momentarily paralyzed with fear before he swung around wildly at the hulking goon approaching him, completely missing the one behind him. There was a painful crack on his skull and then darkness.

 

Alex awoke groggy, disoriented and nauseous. It was often like this upon waking, thinking he'd open his eyes and see his own room again, in his own house, in his own reality, to the sound of his dad yelling at him to wake up for school. But it was just the hatefully familiar sounds of the jungle that greeted him.

He could only see darkness punctuated by pinpricks of light piercing the canvas sack over his face. The smell of rotten food filled his nose. He tried to dislodge it, but his hands were bound and he thrashed blindly, trying to throttle down on his panic and failing.

The sound of human voices and heavy footfalls made him jerk up, off-balance and confused.

"Seaplane," came the low growl.

Hands grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and then light slapped him hard in the face as the canvas sack was torn off. He blinked, the greasy smell of oil and body odor replacing the other rotten stink.

Van Pelt stood at the entrance of an otherwise empty tent, flanked by a pack of goons. Alex swallowed, sick to his stomach.

"Where is the Jaguar's Eye?" he said, that supernaturally green eye glinting.

Alex only managed to shake his head jerkily and choke out a stuttered, "N-no."

Van Pelt advanced on him. A jungle centipede slithered out of his shirt collar, winding its way around his neck. Alex visibly shivered.

"Don't like bugs, do ya?" he sneered. "Especially not mosquitos, I hear."

There was a taut pause as Van Pelt eyed him up. Alex could practically feel it, like shivering pricks of bug bites on his skin.

 _"Where is the eye?"_ Van Pelt repeated, slower and more dangerous.

"I don't have it!" Alex burst out, heart hammering in his throat making it difficult to breathe.

"Liar," Van Pelt muttered coldly and motioned to the goon still holding him upright by the shirt.

The bare moment Alex had to ready himself for the punch did nothing to lessen the sharp pain or the ringing in his ears that followed. He would swear pain hadn't been this potent before when he'd first arrived, when this all felt like a hyperreal game.

The goon hit him again and again, knocking him to the ground where his whole body cringed in pain, bright bursts of light exploding behind his eyelids.

"You'll tell me eventually," Van Pelt snarled somewhere above him.

"I won't," Alex groaned through gritted teeth. If Van Pelt got the jewel, he was as good as dead, unable to finish the game even if other players did arrive at some point. The other option was letting Van Pelt and his men beat him death, maybe leave him in the jungle to get eaten alive by mosquitos.

He caught the huge booted foot of a goon in his stomach and he let out a winded gasp of agony. Then they filed out, leaving as abruptly as they arrived, Van Pelt's laughter in the night like another jungle creature's call from the canopy.

At least he was inside, Alex thought dully. Safe from mosquitos—in theory. A lantern hung from the beams holding up the canvas tent, giving him at least some light. He could run, even with his hands bound. But it was night, the deep jungle infested with so many things that could kill him he didn't want to think about it. And he'd be a moron to think the tent was unguarded.

Alex must've fallen into a doze because the next thing he knew water splashed on his face, a rude and cold awakening. He spluttered and was then forced up into a kneeling position, more water falling over his face. It was aimed at his mouth and he choked on it, the sharp iron taste of his own blood mingling with the stream as it pooled in his throat. He heaved, coughing it up as the goons gathered around him laughed.

It was still dark out as the tent flap was pulled aside again, letting in Van Pelt's monstrous form. Or maybe a whole day had passed and it was night again. He couldn't be sure.

"Are you ready to talk?"

Alex shook his head, eyes blurry with tears as he continued to cough.

Van Pelt glared at him, that milky green eye gleaming with menace in the low light. He seemed to be considering something. Alex couldn't imagine what. He may look like a man, but he was just a computer program. Lines of code somewhere, programmed to do and say certain things and nothing else. He couldn't think for himself. But he certainly looked like he could.

With a sharp jerk of his head, Van Pelt motioned to his goons who hopped to it and filed out, leaving them alone. Alex felt a cold sweat break out all over his body, stinging in the humid air. Van Pelt was a mountain of a man, too tall and strong for even Alex's real-life body to take on. And he was built to be strong, the final boss he wasn't supposed to confront until the final level. Yet here he was, defying programming, towering over him.

"No one tells you how boring it gets out here," he muttered as Alex stared up at him in confusion. "There's nothing to do. Except try and kill you." Van Pelt shrugged off his voluminous leather longcoat, unbuckling the holsters where he stored his weapons, dropping them all on the tent's floor. He approached slowly, like one of the jaguars he could inhabit, one large hand grazing Alex's cheek almost tenderly.

Alex jerked back, head spinning. Van Pelt grabbed him swiftly by the collar, producing a long knife from a sheath on his hip and Alex yelped in fear. But Van Pelt only held the blade close to his face for a moment, forcing him to look at it, observe its lethal sharpness before bringing it down to the buttons of his shirt.

His body cringed in fear at every jerk of the knife, but it only tore at his buttons, barely grazing the skin beneath it. Head spinning, Alex tried to twist away, kicking out in a blind panic.

"Nothing to do, no _one_ to do," Van Pelt said with a booming laugh at Alex's feeble attempts to escape.

"No, no, no, stop, please," he babbled desperately, unable to comprehend that it was really happening.

But Van Pelt had him in a chokehold in no time, wrestling him bodily to the ground. His massive form crushed the air from his lungs and Alex wheezed in agony, still trying to squirm away and escape. With his bound hands trapped against the other man, there was really nothing he could do but thrash pointlessly, wrists rubbing raw against the stiff rope. But he couldn't simply stop fighting. Jefferson Seaplane McDonough wasn't programmed for melee combat – he was made to fly planes and make margaritas. Yet with Alex piloting, he wasn't going to go down without a fight. Even if it proved to be futile.

Van Pelt simply held him tighter, one broad arm across his throat, his tree trunk-like legs boxing him in as he struggled. He didn't smell like the other goons, slathered in grease to keep the mosquitos away. He barely smelled human at all. More like the jungle itself, like earth and smoke and the faintest tang of decay. Like graveyard dirt, mulching the remains of every person and animal felled by Jumanji's sinister design.

Winded, drained by panic, Alex struggled until he was fevered with sweat and exertion, barely able to see for the white sunbursts blinding him as he gasped for breath. Van Pelt still crushed him, completely unfazed by Alex's struggles. Dimly, he wondered how this could be happening. He wasn't a man. He was software. But he didn't feel soft in any sense, not bearing down with all his weight, an unmistakable erection digging into the small of Alex's back.

"You done?" he growled, casual and amused, so close to Alex's ear that he shivered involuntarily.

Even without his knife, Van Pelt still had Alex at his mercy. Rearranging himself to hold Alex down in a half-nelson, his free hand now wandered over his bare chest. Alex jerked in alarm, muscles worn out from his futile struggle.

"You are the finest piece of ass that's ever wandered into this jungle," Van Pelt murmured, a low rumble that seemed to permeate Alex's bones. He twisted despite himself as Van Pelt's cold, calloused hand nudged his belt. "That's it," he groaned, pushing back against his ass with his hard-on, ignoring how Alex whimpered in fear.

A low chuckled vibrated through Van Pelt's chest, reverberating in Alex's shaking limbs. Thick fingers wormed their way into the loops of his belt, working it free and then plucking open his buttoned fly. Vainly, Alex tried to buck him off, only serving to elicit another amused grumble from Van Pelt.

"I'll make it good for you," he sighed, breath hot and humid like the depths of the jungle itself, prickling onto the flushed skin of his throat.

"No," Alex panted, hand slippery with sweat as he twisted them against unrelenting restraints, sawing them deeper into aching skin. "Stop. Please."

Van Pelt's huge hands were rough as sandpaper as they shoved down his pants and underwear. The air in the tent was close and stuffy, choking Alex with every desperate, panicked breath. With a powerful hand on the back of his neck, Van Pelt sat up minutely, enough to hitch up Alex's hips so he could push his pants farther down his legs. Alex let out a shrill whine of fear escape as he tried again to wiggle away, a thick-knuckled hand palming his exposed ass.

"Shh," Van Pelt cooed, as if he were calming a spooked animal.

He heard a sound like Van Pelt spitting into his hand and then the fingers were back, pressing along the seam of his ass.

"You ever let anyone in here?" he growled, sickening softness in his probing of his hole. Alex only shrunk away involuntarily, body tightening. "Didn't think so," Van Pelt chuckled.

A cold, slick finger pressed firm against his rim, slipping in despite Alex's feeble attempts to twist away. The pain was severe, barely helped by the meager slide of spit. He choked on a whimper despite himself, shuddering out a breathy gasp of pain. Van Pelt's thick finger twisted deeper and Alex was barely able to get used to the stretch before he was forcing in another.

Alex could only grunt in pain, screwing his face up against the dirty canvas floor. Van Pelt finger-fucked him slowly, drawing out every thrust before finally pulling out completely. Alex could only suck in a deep, shuddering breath before he felt the blunt end of something far thicker press against his sore hole.

"No," he moaned weakly, still trying to pull feebly away.

But Van Pelt was undeterred. The pain was searing, tearing him apart. Alex could do nothing but pant helplessly, trying to focus on anything else. He tried to remember the opening to Slayer's _Killing Fields,_ to map out the drumming movements in his head, but he faltered. The white-hot panic returned, his mind going blank as he struggled to regain that bit of his past that had kept him sane for so long. Van Pelt inched into him, his cock feeling about as big as the rest of him and Alex tried to relax, to lessen the pain somewhat, but it was impossible. He kept seizing up with the combination of pain and fear, body clenching involuntarily on the massive intrusion.

He could feel Van Pelt grunting in pleasure every time.

The pressure was immense, filling him up, impossible to ignore. He could barely breathe, every wheeze and gasp for oxygen a struggle that made his head spin. There was a creeping sense of inversion, vertigo swooping up from low in his belly and exploding in his chest like the fall from the top of the tallest roller coaster. He tried to focus on breathing alone, on the sharp, frenzied in and out of breath.

Van Pelt's huge hand skimmed low on his stomach, teasing the fine hairs below his belly button. The hand dipped lower. With a feeling like he was in an elevator that suddenly dropped a floor, Van Pelt's paw closed around his cock, already and inexplicably half-hard.

Alex yelped, the sound catching in his chest and sputtering out like a hiccup.

Van Pelt chuckled, squeezing his dick in a grip that only bordered on painfully hard. "You like that?" he muttered and Alex fitfully shook his head, screwing his face up as he tried to will the feeling away.

But the contrast of searing hot pleasure as Van Pelt jerked him and the pain of how deep he was being fucked messed with his head. Soon he was fully hard in Van Pelt's rough, calloused fingers, a broad thumb swiping over his cock head that was intensely sensitive and suddenly dripping. Alex bit his lip hard enough to bleed to keep from howling.

Van Pelt was enjoying himself too much. He slipped out on the downstroke, but only long enough to flip them both over so he lay on his side. Alex was still trapped, his wrists bound, hands beginning to prickle from lack of bloodflow, eyes stinging from the sweat that poured off his face. Every muscle in his body ached beyond endurance and in one smooth movement, Van Pelt impaled him with his cock again, heaving him close with a hand wrapped around his inner thigh and one around his chest.

The angle was different this way, his legs spread open and displayed, cock still hard and bobbing in the humid air. Alex could only whine, high-pitched and pathetic as Van Pelt pistoned into him, brushing something inside him that was both electrically painful and exquisitely pleasurable, and a direct line to his cock. The hand on his sweat-soaked chest slid higher, closing around his exposed throat.

Sounds faded. The low hum of the jungle outside, its infinite creatures turning each other into another layer of fecund soil, nutrition for the equally beautiful and deadly flowers—gone. The strained panting of Van Pelt as he fucked him, his own pained whimpers, all of it sputtered out like a radio tuned to white noise as Van Pelt squeezed away his airway. The sight of the yellowed canvas of the tent, already blurred from sweat and tears running from his eyes, bloomed with bright orange lights exploding like Fourth of July fireworks in his vision.

And just as quickly, the hand relaxed. Alex heaved in air like never before, his lungs screaming in agony. He gasped and sputtered, Van Pelt's hand still loosely pressed on his throat as he fucked him with deep, even plunges. His cock felt like it was going to explode, still hard and brushing his lower stomach with every thrust that ignited that painfully hot pleasure deep in his ass.

Before he could properly recover, Van Pelt squeezed again. His body screamed for oxygen, every nerve on fire as Van Pelt choked the life out of him. Pinpricks of white light flashed behind his eyelids. His primitive brain screamed in terror, sensing death was near. But then the hand released and Alex gasped for air again. The relief was magnified by the cock thrust to the hilt inside him, sending jolts of pleasure to his untouched cock. Too soon, Van Pelt choked him again, thick fingers like iron bands constricting his world to nothing but the feel of him rocking in and out of his ass, heightening the pain and the pleasure to unbearable levels. The third time he relaxed his hand was punctuated by a brutal thrust that made Alex squeal in a high-pitched drawing in of oxygen. His cock throbbed, desperate for some friction to relieve the frustrated buildup, and then that enormous hand was sliding down his front again.

His brain was still signaling pleasure, a riotous volley of joy that he could breathe again, and as Van Pelt closed his cock in a rough fist, he choked on his pained whimper. It only took a few tugs and he was shooting off, come splattering the canvas floor and his own stomach, globs sticking to Van Pelt's huge, tanned mitt. His brain seemed to be misfiring, lungs constricting as though he had been denied oxygen again, vision graying out at the force of his orgasm. He struggled to breathe, to just heave in enough air to not feel like he was dying. And Van Pelt was still fucking him.

Pleasure on the knife's edge of pain, too much too quickly and he could do nothing but take it and moan pathetically as Van Pelt fucked into him with more and more vigor. He could feel the man's hot breath on his neck, teeth grazing his skin as if Van Pelt couldn't control his predator's instinct to bite down on vulnerable flesh. And then his massive body stiffened, a low grunt followed by stuttered groans as he came inside him, unrelenting and brutal.

Alex couldn't move. Everything hurt. Especially his head, empty of any thought except that he _hurt_ and wanted it to stop. Van Pelt eased his cock out, a final drag against sensitive, abused skin that made Alex shudder and moan.

Van Pelt rolled him off and face down on the floor. He lay there, boneless and miserable as he distantly heard the other man gather his clothes and redress himself. His brain seemed to have fizzled out, barely able to assemble the jumbled mess of sensations into a coherent whole.

But when he felt Van Pelt grab his bound wrists, he tried to jolt away in fear on instinct, muscles tightening up painfully. He readied himself for more pain, but Van Pelt merely began sawing at the roped that bound his wrists instead. Free now, hands useless and numb from being tied too long, Alex only curled them up to his chest, shoulders aching from the new position.

Face pressed against the floor, Alex observed the small part of Van Pelt that he could see without moving too much, watching the man's heavy boot shifting as he stood up again. Van Pelt laughed, deep and rumbling in his chest as Alex watched the boot disappear. There was the soft sound of the tent's flap being lifted and then falling back into place, and Alex found himself alone again.

Hands aching, weak and prickling with pins and needles, he adjusted his clothes best he could. They were torn, but he could pull up his pants again, shuddering at the gross sticky feel that seemed to encapsulate his entire body. Managing to button his fly and do up his belt was beyond him at the moment, but he let that be. Anything more than curling up in the fetal position and trying to will his heartbeat to a normal rhythm was too much. His head ached, his throat ached, every part of him was sore and throbbing.

Outside, the jungle was a tangle of white noise, as familiar as it was hateful. Distantly, he thought how lucky he was that they were keeping him inside where the mosquitos couldn't get him. Or maybe, he thought with a grim, hysterical laugh that hurt his chest more than anything, he should ask for them to leave the tent flap open. Maybe then his nightmare could be over for good.

 

When Alex woke again, the jungle sounds were louder. He heard that familiar bird cry that signaled morning in Jumanji and he opened his eyes a fraction. Above him, he saw thatched roofing and dappled sunlight. He was back in Alan Parrish's camp.

Alex sat up best he could while in a hammock, swinging side to side awkwardly. It made no sense that he was back here and not dumped in the jungle somewhere. He checked the underside of his wrist, but his one remaining life was still there.

Heaved himself out of the hammock, he stumbled only slightly. The only reason he wasn't sure it hadn't been a particularly realistic nightmare was that he still felt sore everywhere. He fumbled for the shard of mirror he kept near his sleeping hammock and saw that uncanny reflection of someone else's face that he had come to accept as his own. Deep purple bruises in the shape of finger marks lay across his pale throat. He felt ill.

Someone had lit a circle of Citronella candles. That was nice of them, he thought with a hysterical gurgle of laughter. Lightheaded, he squinted against the shifting sunlight filtered through the canopy.

He needed a margarita. Or twelve. Luckily he could do that with his eyes closed.

 

After a few drinks and after puking them all up again, he laid back down, head spinning worse than ever. Maybe he should let the candles burn out. Maybe he should let the jungle take him.

But by the next morning, his headache had faded along with the bruises and he didn't feel so self-destructive anymore. He'd been holding out hope for so long that new players would enter the game and he'd be free, why should he give up now? A righteous anger at the game and the jungle and his own stupid curiosity for getting him into this mess in the first place overwhelmed him. He couldn't let the game win. It was made to be beaten. He had to do it.

But first he needed rations. The trip back to the bazaar was more fraught than usual with Alex constantly looking over his shoulder and up at the sky for the outline of Van Pelt's vulture circling above him. But he made it made from and to the camp without any trouble, laden with limes, tequila and pound cake.

He was feeling stupidly optimistic until he rounded a patch of trees and found his camp already occupied. Fear seized him, heart pounding, hands numb.

"Seaplane!" Van Pelt bellowed, his vulture perched on a wooden beam behind him. "Welcome home."

Alex briefly considered booking it into the jungle, but then he felt the presence of two or more goons behind him. He was boxed in again. Nervous sweat beaded his forehead and he faltered.

"What do you want?" he said in a pathetically small voice as the goon prodded him forward with the blunt end of their weapons.

"You," Van Pelt said with an evil gleam of his evil eye.

"You’re a fucking video game!" Alex cried out, voice cracking.

"A what?" he muttered in obvious confusion. That wasn't the response he was supposed to have. He had a set of preprogrammed responses and actions...

But something had obviously changed. Van Pelt examine his table full of possessions, mosquito candles and margarita blender, huge paw touching each one with interest. "Quite a haul of candles," he said casually. "We could use some more candles, couldn't we, boys?"

Alex swallowed his panic thickly as the men around them laughed derisively. "No," he stuttered. "I need them – please –"

 _"Please,"_ Van Pelt repeated mockingly and Alex closed his eyes briefly against the surge of panic.

A goon behind him had relieved him of his sack filled with rations from the bazaar and a group of them rifled through it.

"You beg so pretty," Van Pelt said in a low, rough voice, advancing on him. Alex could actually feel himself tremble. "I let you go – not sure why now. But I should have kept you for myself, my own little fuck toy."

"Jesus fucking Christ..." Alex breathed, heart hammering in his chest.

"How much do you want to keep your candles, then?" Van Pelt said with fake casualness and Alex couldn't respond. "Well?" he continued after a drawn-out moment.

"W-what do you want?" he stuttered, breathing hitched.

Van Pelt raised his eyebrow, smirked. Alex glanced around nervously, neck prickling. It was getting dark. If he tried to spend the night in the jungle without any protection from the bugs, he'd be dead for sure. Van Pelt seemed to know that, an amused glint in his eye as he watched Alex fumble internally over his actions. "Go on. On your knees."

The command was short, abrupt, and Alex faltered.

"Do you want them or not, pretty boy?" Van Pelt growled and Alex found himself sinking to his knees despite himself.

Van Pelt's hand was rough and broad, cupping his jaw almost fondly. A calloused thumb swiped over his lower lip and Alex couldn't stop himself from shuddering.

"We don’t have all day, Seaplane," Van Pelt grumbled, hands dropping to his side.

Of course he wouldn’t make this easy for him. Alex's hands trembled as he raised them to Van Pelt's belt buckle, and he fumbled clumsily, sounds of ridicule from the surrounding goons echoing in his ears. He'd never done this before, but he could do this. He had to do this. Maybe oral was one of Jefferson Seaplane's strengths that he hadn't discovered yet.

It didn't feel intuitive though, not like flying or making drinks. It was terrifying, wrestling down Van Pelt's fly and peeling down his briefs to reveal that thick cock, already half-hard and menacing. He hadn't even seen it the last time, only felt it, and it somehow looked even bigger now, partially flaccid and all.

He paused, fear making him feel slow and stupid, and Van Pelt grabbed him by the back of his head, tugging hard at a handful of air.

"Get on with it," he gritted out.

With that strong hand still pulling on his hair, Alex took Van Pelt's cock in his shaking hand. He jerked it loosely, going by instinct on how his own cock worked. Van Pelt let out a low hiss, hips moving slightly as his cock hardened. As it grew thicker and scarier with every stroke, Alex tried to work up the courage to take it in his mouth. He knew Van Pelt was growing impatient, but the closeness of the man's body, his familiar scent of dirt and decay made his anxiety climb.

Van Pelt pulled his hair, released it and palmed his jaw again, pushing one thumb past his trembling lips and into his mouth. He tasted like he smelled: jungle soil. Van Pelt pried his mouth open and thrust forward, his slick cock head seeking entry. With no other option, Alex let him in.

It was too alien, the salty taste and slippery feel making his senses recoil. Van Pelt held him still with a hand on the back of his head, pushing his cock deeper past Alex's lips, forcing his mouth open further. He tried desperately to breathe through his nose and to keep from panicking like before, but it was hard as Van Pelt's thick cock kept coming. Tears filled his eyes as Van Pelt drew away slightly and then pushed in further, fucking his mouth. He opened his mouth as much as possible, but when Van Pelt's cock touched the back of his throat, he gagged. Van Pelt drew back as Alex choked, but then pushed in again.

Alex could only choke and gag around the cock in his mouth, Van Pelt guiding the whole process. Spit dribbled from the corners of his mouth as Van Pelt moved his hips, in and further in, pulling his hair with spasmodic clenches of his fist.

"That's right..." he groaned thickly. "I should let the whole crew have a go."

That elicited a fearful whimper from Alex and Van Pelt chuckled. He fucked his face harder, cock bumping the back of Alex's throat with every thrust. It was hard to breathe, air coming in short, frantic bursts, his nose filled with Van Pelt's thick scent. His jaw and knees began to ache from the strain, but he could hear Van Pelt's breathing become strained, signaling the blissful end to the whole ordeal.

But then he stopped, letting his cock rest on Alex's tongue. Alex's eyes flew open, squinted up at Van Pelt through the sweat stinging in his eyes.

"I'm not doing all the work," Van Pelt said gruffly, just letting his cock sit there.

Alex choked in fear. It figured he wouldn't get out of this that easily. He began to move his head, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked. Van Pelt grunted in pleasure and Alex felt something swoop low in his stomach, body reacting unconsciously to the memory of that thick hand pressing on his throat, cutting off his air, forcing pleasure out of him. His head was swimming.

With one hand wrapped around the base to hold himself steady, Alex suckled on the head, hoping this would get Van Pelt closer to completion. The man groaned in obvious appreciation and Alex felt that dull warmth low in his belly again. Self-disgust followed close after.

He worked at Van Pelt's cock, sloppy and unpracticed, hands still trembling. He listened to the man's low moans of pleasure as he alternately tried to take more and more of it into his mouth without gagging again, or tongued the slit where he knew his own cock was ultra-sensitive. Van Pelt squeezed the back of his neck, hand working through his sweat-dampened hair. He'd been keeping his hips still, letting Alex do the work until he apparently couldn't anymore, and he began to thrust minutely. Alex did his best to keep sucking as Van Pelt fucked his face again, spit running down his chin.

With a fierce growl, Van Pelt thrust his cock all the way into his throat and Alex choked, whimpered, and then he pulled out all the way, cock pulsing as he came all over Alex's face. The hot come hit his abused mouth, chin and eyelid as Van Pelt groaned deeply. Alex, eyes shut as the jizz stung his poor eyeballs, felt Van Pelt's hand return to stroking his face, sliding through the globs and smearing it over his cheeks and swollen lips. His thumb swiped over his eye, slippery now with come and tears.

Alex fell back on his heels, wiping his face with his sleeve. He was shaky, vaguely nauseous, and hard as a rock in his pants.

"I guess you can keep your candles," Van Pelt said over the sound of his zipper. "But I'll be back."

The roar of motorcycles coming to life filled the jungle as they lelt him alone. Alex struggled to his feet, hands shaking so badly that he could barely light the candles that were keeping him alive. Of course he'd be back, of course.

It's not like he didn't have all the time in the world to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for Morgan for the beta! You can blame her for encouraging me.
> 
> The title is from _Sun Song_ by the Mountain Goats.


End file.
